


Shall we dance?

by SenTheSeventh



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Divergent Timelines, Dysfunctional Relationships, I actually don't really know how to tag this, Incest, M/M, Past Violence, Possessive Behavior, Possessive demonic behavior, Sibling Incest, Vergil won in DMC3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 05:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19041994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenTheSeventh/pseuds/SenTheSeventh
Summary: "The sword is massive, the opposite of Yamato: heavy, ostentatious, blade thickened by lava ornaments that can shred flesh or open to reveal the fire simmering underneath. Seven seals are keeping it dormant, the weight of their magic distorting the air around them. Small bones and insects corpses, the white dust-like carcasses of vermin overwhelmed by the power enclosed in the room, crunch under the Demon King’s boots when he steps toward the sword."Vergil won in DMC3.





	Shall we dance?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sub_textual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sub_textual/gifts).



> Betaread by the lovely [OriginBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginBlue) and gifted to [Subtextual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sub_textual/) whose energy was definitively instrumental on keeping me hooked to this amazing fandom.

The sword is massive, the opposite of Yamato: heavy, ostentatious, blade thickened by lava ornaments that can shred flesh or open to reveal the fire simmering underneath. Seven seals are keeping it dormant, the weight of their magic distorting the air around them. Small bones and insects corpses, the white dust-like carcasses of vermin overwhelmed by the power enclosed in the room, crunch under the Demon King’s boots when he steps toward the sword.

A fond smile paints itself on the sovereign’s mouth, seemingly incongruous on his marmoreal face; the sudden whim of some insolent divine artist. Cold fingers caress the blade – impervious to the way the razor-sharp asperities on the lava, sharkskin-like in their false bluntness, tear through their flesh and make them bleed.

“Even reshaped and collared, you just can’t behave yourself, can you? Dante...”

There is no heat in the King’s words; there never is. Even his passions are cold, uncommon things – cold, dangerous things.

The seals tear like paper tigers when he turns his attention to them. When the seventh falls apart, the sword shines, briefly, and Vergil can feel its warmth on his skin.

“ _Look at that! My dearest big bro. What’s up? You look even more evil than the last time!_ ”

The voice is distorted but human, alight with eternal youth and bitter sarcasm. The Demon King closes his hand on the hilt, feeling familiar power resonate with his own. The sword is warm; it always is, even in slumber.

Sometimes, he imagines that Dante’s skin would be this warm, now.

“Thank you, brother. Did you sleep well?”

“ _You know I can’t resist your sweet lullabies. Who are we killing today? Or did you wake me up to bleed on me again?_ ”

Vergil never told Dante about the Qliphoth and the terrible, incredible fruit that burned his mouth and brought the world to his knees; he fed him his blood after the fact, generously sharing the power that should have been theirs. He’s protecting his brother, body and mind. Strengthening him, and keeping him from the truths that would hurt his strange human feelings.

“We’re killing,” he informs him. “Our enemies are mighty simpletons. You’re going to like it.”

“ _Aw, Vergil! You’re saving the best especially for me?_ ” The sword drawls. Yet hunger dwells in his voice, nested in mocking glee. Half of Dante’s blood clamors for violence, whether he admits it or not.

“All the best for my little brother.”

“ _I bet you say that to all your devil arms._ ”

“You’re the only one I use.”

The others lie dormant in his castles’ armories, kept and framed as trophies. They don’t matter; they are but markers of the Demon King’s power.

Only Dante has meaning.

“ _Aren’t you a romantic_.” There’s sarcasm in the sword’s voice. There’s something else, too, more uncertain.

Dante is what the Demon King couldn’t allow himself to have until he was powerful enough, safe enough. Dante is the wisecracking levity unknown to his subjects; Dante is the eternal, death-defying irreverence that both irritates Vergil and brings him to banter back. Dante is warmth, and precious memories of a weakness that hadn't yet tasted fear and grief. Dante is affection – a foreign, vulnerable strain in Vergil’s soul, the echo of a humanity long snuffed out between cold, bloodstained fingers. Others are servants, obstacles, rabble; Dante is his brother – Dante is a _person_.

The only thing worth cherishing.

The only thing worth owning.

It took great amount of endurance, ruthlessness and care to beat him down enough that defeat carved itself in his body, demonic submission circumventing his will and his pride to transform him into a devil arm. He’s beautiful. He’s perfect.

He’s Vergil’s.

“ _You should let me become human again._ ” The sword states.

“We are not human, Dante.”

“ _You know what I mean. Gimme back a body._ Hands _. I’ve got a hell of a phantom itch where my nose would be._ ”

“Picture a phantom scratching.”

Dante chuckles.

“ _Witty. But seriously, Verge, think about it. You’re getting bored. You don’t have anyone that can really fight you, do you? No one that can take you like I do. No one that can put a zest of chaos in your wonderful orderly reign._ ”

“Mm.”

“ _You like to pretend that you’re only after absolute power, but we’ve got the same blood, brother. How far along is your little plan of world domination? Who still tells you off? How much do you wish for_ fun _?”_

“Ah, but I still have enemies, see? I’m using you.”

“ _But it’s not me. I bet we’ll finish in_ minutes _._ ”

“Needy,” the sovereign chides him.

“’ _S’that supposed to be a bad thing?_ ”

And Vergil could say: _you’re right, little brother._

And Vergil could say: _but I won against you. You’re mine. And I’m not the kind of man who believes in letting go of something you love._

“Maybe one day.” He knows that Dante can feel the lie, yet his devil arm does not push the matter; laughs shortly, and says no more. Resigned, perhaps, or content to have put the idea in his mind. In time, as the Demon King's conquest progresses, it might become a real temptation – when the last resistance will have toppled before him, peace and power and a cold eternity of predictable, pathetic beings around him.

Yet...

 _Mine_.

Sword in hand, the Demon King leaves his bedchamber. Sentinels straighten and servants scamper out of his way when he stalks toward the stables. They know what the Devil Sword Dante means, and what power he yields then; they fear them.

As they should.

Dante scoffs with contempt, answering Vergil’s own scorn. The sovereign smiles with amusement.

“Pay them no heed, brother. They’re part of our scenery.”

“ _Boring_.”

“I know.”

He pushes the ornate doors of the royal stable. His steed has been prepared, dark sparks of light dancing around its pulsating, grotesque chitin. He spares a glance to the master equerry, who withdraws with a respectful bow.

“ _We going far?_ ”

The Demon King’s mount growls in subjection when he rides it, leading it toward the castle’s entrance. “Just outside the palace. It’s a formal challenge.”

“ _It’s going to last seconds.”_

“With a secret twist that will shake me to my core. There are six demon lords ready to teleport and help him, which I will not expect in the least, having no spies amongst their ranks.”

“ _Okay, so one whole minute.”_

Vergil smirks despite himself. “Now, you’re just being dramatic.”

“ _Only one way to find out, uh?”_

Massed outside, camping in the plain that the Demon Kings had carefully laid out with traps they've not yet perceived, the coalition of rebels is waiting with bated breath. He can almost taste their fear, their hate and their anger.

Their predictable weakness.

The Demon King grips his devil sword, and feels a familiar rush of energy when it opens to reveal the fire inside – Dante docile under his hands, a prolongation of his being, _as it should be_.

“Shall we dance, brother?”

“ _I thought you’d never ask.”_

He manages to make them last at least six minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> Because credit must be paid, the initial idea for this piece was born from the amazing [Boundary issues](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18500200), which I can't shower in enough love for its snarky, twisted beauty, and inspired by the incredible atmosphere of [Wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/)'s [Alliance universe](https://archiveofourown.org/series/14234), which makes me want to write a small ton of "Vergil is king of the Underworld" dystopia.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it and wish you an amazing day <3


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